


as the flames climbed into the clouds

by sleeponrooftops



Category: Falling Skies, Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, F/M, Language, M/M, Sexual Content, Violence, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:38:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeponrooftops/pseuds/sleeponrooftops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the skies fall, Dean knows, suddenly and absolutely, where the angels went the day Sam was supposed to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. This is the conglomeration of a few things: [a little drabble I read on ao3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/290689), the fact that every episode I watch involves my brain including the boys, and Pope.
> 
> A few small discrepancies —
> 
> i. So, Dean. I’m predicting he’s going to get with at least Maggie, Pope, Tom (even if only something small), Cas (probably just sexual tension, as always), and most definitely Jo. Oh look, it’s Jo! Essentially, _Abandon all Hope_ and _Hammer of the Gods_ didn’t happen as they originally did because I like the Harvelles and Gabriel. The angels will be explained, I promise, but, as a quick note, Lucifer and Michael are not at odds, and Lucifer is not bad. Because we’re best friends, so. Oh, and Chuck. He’s around.
> 
> ii. I adopted some of the ideas from the drabble I read, mainly that the Impala survives the whole cars stopping thing, but also the whole angels not showing up thing. That’ll be a theme for some time.
> 
> iii. So I kind of just ignored the beginning of season six. Pretty much, this picks up right after Swan Song, with some obvious changes to the end (ie: Sam doesn’t go into the pit, or, at least, not for very long, Chuck is still around), so if you haven’t watched season six or seven, you’re good to go.

_May 13, 2010._

Dean sags, limp against the Impala.  He watches Sam’s hand slowly uncurl in the air, and he sees his brother return in Lucifer’s borrowed eyes.  Sam looks at Dean, and he starts to say something, but then Lucifer is back, and Dean flinches as his hand comes forward.  “You will need your strength,” Lucifer says in Sam’s voice as two of his fingers touch Dean’s forehead.  And then it’s all happening at once.  Lucifer is spreading Sam’s arms, and Sam is screaming, and Dean forces his eyes shut as the powerful and magnificent white light of an archangel explodes from Sam’s body.

 

The light forces him blind, and so he only hears.  “Lucifer, _hurry_!”  But Dean would know Adam’s voice always now, and he nearly opens his eyes, but a familiar hand closes over them.

 

“Dean, no.”  _Cas_.  “When you pray, I will not come.”  And then Cas’ hand is gone, and there are no more voices, but more white until Dean yells, sliding off the Impala and covering his face with his arms as he sinks to the ground.

 

And then it’s over.

 

When Dean lifts his head, Sam is stirring a few feet from him, Bobby is groaning, _alive_ , and Adam is unconscious, but he’s Adam—of that, Dean is sure.  And, in his hand, Castiel’s touch still lingering, are the four rings, bound together.  Sam pushes up and looks at Dean, and, for once, neither says anything.

 

\--

 

_December 12, 2010._

When the skies fall, Dean knows, suddenly and absolutely, where the angels went the day Sam was supposed to die.  He knows why Michael called to his brother, why he went against his Father’s Plan and took Lucifer’s hand once more on the field of battle.  He knows why Castiel said he wouldn’t come, why the Impala runs, because that’s Cas’ way of apologizing.  But none of it matters because the skies are falling, the angels are gone, and all Dean has is Sammy and his baby, but that’s all he’s ever had, and nothing changes.

 

He’s heard them called aliens and skitters and lizards and mechs and cooties and every other name, but they’re just monsters to him, and he’s been doing this his whole life.  It’s only different now because the world finally doesn’t care if he’s dead or not, and the family business makes sense to everyone.

 

The hunt is on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Firstly, that last line looks familiar because it’s from that drabble I keep mentioning (honestly, why don’t more people cross these two shows over?), and I just love how it sounds. Secondly, I know, there’s no FS in here yet, and I promise, this will not be a primarily Supernatural story. The first chapter actually starts in Tom’s point of view, I believe. It’s going to most likely switch off between Tom and Dean, maybe with a little added Sam and Pope every once in a while.
> 
> But anyway, enough rambling. I haven’t written a chaptered fic in a very long time. Usually, I just write obnoxiously long oneshots that end up being almost 30k words, and they just drive me insane, but. This seems like it would be better chaptered, so fingers crossed.
> 
> If you’re a tumblr fan, please check out my newest blog for Falling Skies, [wearehosts](http://wearehosts.tumblr.com), it’s a fun little place, and updates will be posted there, as well as my personal tumblr. This will also be up on a few livejournals and AO3, but I think that’s it. I just love crossposting. But yeah, that’s my story. I hope that you guys enjoyed this and what’s to come. Don’t forget to leave your thoughts!


	2. Chapter 2

_March 18, 2011._

It’s dark and stormy when Pope hears the noise, a tiny scuffle only a few feet away, and he shifts his rifle, turning just enough that he can see in the general direction.  The noise repeats a few moments later, this time added with some kind of animalistic sound of pain.  Pope lifts the rifle until he can look through the scope, but even with the added night vision, he can’t see shit, and he sighs, lowering the weapon again only for the scuffle to emit near his feet.  He nearly pulls the trigger on a sopping wet kitten.

 

With a small grumble, he heaves the strap over his shoulder and bends to one knee, scooping the kitten up in one hand, cursing it when it tries to bite through his leather jacket.  He retreats a few yards back where there’s a large enough overhang that it shields him from the bucketing rain.  He drops his rifle to the ground and sits behind it, his back to the wall as he uncovers the little ball of fur and lifts it up to his eyelevel, careful to keep it far enough away from his face that it can’t scratch him.

 

“What?” he says when the kitten meows feebly, and it does the trick.  Back before he and Billy were always at odds, when they were just kids in a trailer park trying to pretend they weren’t going to turn into their alcoholic father and abusive mother, they’d taken in a tuxedo kitten with a black nose and a white stripe down his face that made him look like he had a white mustache.  It wasn’t possible, he knew, but Pope couldn’t help but see his little stray in this pitiful, mewling tuxedo.

 

It couldn’t have been much more than two months old, and I’s shaking from both the cold and probably fear.  He has no way of knowing how long the kitten hadsbeen separated from his mother, but he hadn’t when he was eight, either, and he and Billy had managed to keep that kitten alive for twelve weeks before their father shot it in a drunken rage.

 

“If I bring you back, Billy will lose his shit, cat,” he informs it, but the kitten just mewls and turns its head to lick his thumb.  Sighing, Pope brings it closer, tucking it against him as he carefully shrugs out of his leather and then his green and black flannel.  He wraps the kitten up in it, drags the leather back on, and cracks a rare smile when the kitten tries to wriggle free of the flannel and closer to him.  He gives in, curling it close against his chest, up enough that the kitten can rub its head under his bearded chin.

 

His watch ends in an hour, and so he waits the rest of it out under the overhang even though he knows he should be keeping an eye on their surroundings.  When he hears Maggie’s telltales steps, however quiet she tries to be, though, he carefully tucks the kitten sans flannel in his pocket, swings the rifle up over his shoulder, and goes to stand in his previous position as though he’d never moved.

 

It nearly works.

 

He’s halfway down the stairs from the roof thinking of boy and girl names until he has a free moment to check out the kitten when he’s ambushed.  He hits the stairs faster than he thought possible, and he definitely does not want to admit to the grunt that comes out of him when he thuds hard against the concrete, a cold and wet body coming down on top of him.  He’s disarmed in seconds, his rifle being tossed to someone with a grumbled, “Sam,” and then the little kitten meows in pain.  The face of his attacker finally shows, brow furrowed at the noise, and Pope opens his mouth to say something, but the handsome man above him beats him to it, “Show me your back.”

 

He understands immediately, and, for once in his life, Pope does what he’s asked without complaint, shifting his shoulder until the man releases him, a sidearm trained expertly on him.  He quickly sheds his leather jacket, turns, and the collar of his t-shirt is suddenly digging into his throat as his back is examined.  “Sam,” the man grunts a second later, and this fucking _giant_ of a man comes out of the shadows, Pope’s rifle over his shoulder and a sidearm in his right hand.  The shorter of the two, Pope’s attacker, turns, and the two men each display their backs for Pope, to which he nods.

 

“I don’t take kindly to be roughed up,” Pope says, and the shorter one opens his mouth for a comeback, but then Pope’s fist is making contact with his nose, and he barely has a second to spare before the taller one nearly knocks him unconscious.  “Okay,” he groans from the stairs again, wincing as the kitten cries.  His attacker actually holds out a hand to help him up, and Pope notes with some satisfaction that he’s bleeding lightly from the nose.

 

He’s all but dragged out of the rain and into the shadows where one of them cracks a flare, and then they’re all awash in a red glow.  “Sorry for the theatrics,” the taller one says, bringing the flare in the middle of them, “We just left some skitters behind, and we had to make sure.  Name’s Sam,” he says, holding out his hand, and Pope weighs his options for a moment before taking it.  “This is my brother, Dean,” he introduces next, jerking his chin toward the shorter one, and Pope nods.

 

“Pope,” he says, “You said skitters?  How far?”

 

“Five miles, at least,” Dean says as he’s pulling his hand away from his nose, “They’re all dead, but we think there was a scout afterward that tracked us.  We lost him a couple minutes ago.”

 

“So, you’re looking for shelter.”  Their faces say it all, and Pope barks an empty laugh.  “You throw a man into concrete stairs and then ask for his hospitality, very civil.”

 

It’s Sam that does it, “I think we lost civility when the devil and God’s chosen son rejoined forces to try to stop an alien force from invading our planet.”

 

Whatever smartass retort he had ready is gone immediately, and Pope just stares at them for a second before straightening up and frowning.  “I’ve heard about you guys,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, “The elite, that’s what you’re calling yourselves, right?”

 

“Headed by Bobby Singer and Sheriff Jody Mills,” Sam says, nodding, “With their second-in-command, Sam and Dean Winchester.”

 

 _Oh_.

 

Yeah, he’s heard about the Winchesters, as well.  _The elite_ are no surprise to anyone anymore.  As soon as the aliens invaded, it all started to unravel, this secret world that very few knew about but that those few were willing to now come out and admit that they had been involved in some crazy supernatural battle where they were saved by men and women that called themselves hunters.  They were called the elite now, master hunters, and the Berserkers had actually had more than one conversation about seeking them out and looking to join them.  Pope can still recall every word that was exchanged between he and his gang after their one and only meeting with Colonel Porter, after he had spun an incredible story about a team that had been fighting around the world long before the invasion and that was now taking an immediate and _strong_ first stand.  _“These men and women are our front lines, and they are going to show these sorry sons of aliens just what the human race can do.”_ Every single one of the Berserkers had wanted to pack up and leave to find them the next morning, and yet, here they remained, safely confined and making their own stand.

 

But now here they are, the _Winchesters_ of all people, said to be at the absolute height of the elite, and they’re seeking shelter.

 

As is appearing to be a common trend with Maggie, Pope doesn’t get to answer.  “The elite, huh?” her voice floats over his shoulder, and he refrains from rolling his eyes.  “Maybe they can teach you how to correctly stand watch, kitten or not,” she continues, and Pope half-turns before gritting his teeth and looking back to the brothers.

 

“I’ll take you down to our humble abode,” he says, and then he only needs to brush past Maggie and hope they follow.

 

\--

 

Pope expects it when he wakes to find the brothers gone, nothing but silence left.  He’d only told his gang that they were fellow loners looking for a place to crash for the night so as not to get everyone riled up only for them to disappear in the morning.  What he doesn’t expect, though, is when he steps outside to soak in the early morning sun, just as its coming up over the buildings, while everyone else is still asleep, Maggie on the roof—he doesn’t expect to hear the distant rumble of an engine that slowly grows in volume until a sleek black Chevy rolls to a stop in front of him, the engine dusting down into a healthy purr.  Sitting behind the large, thin wheel is Dean Winchester, the corner of his mouth quirked up.

 

“Sammy and I were wondering how long your offer stood,” he says easily, a slow drawl coming into his voice, and Pope has to mentally reprimand himself when his cock stirs in his jeans.

 

“Let’s see what happens,” Pope says, shrugging, “Play it by ear.”

 

Sam’s already leaning over the seat to grab their shit as Dean shrugs and puts the Chevy in park, giving her dash a fond pat before he climbs out.  “I brought a token of peace, if it helps,” he says even as he digs in the pocket of his tan leather jacket, and Pope makes a noise halfway to content as Dean holds out a small can of wet cat food.  He starts to say thank you, but Dean’s already moving on, “We stopped at one of the markets around here, figured people hadn’t taken the pet food, as well, so there’s more where that came from.  We’ll leave baby here, she’s already had it hard enough that she can pass for broken and unused.  Sam, what the hell?”

 

“Dude, your shit weighs a ton, get it yourself,” the giant says, throwing a duffel toward Dean, who catches it with ease and makes a face at his brother.  And it’s as he’s watching him that Pope realizes how he’s already falling into their rhythm, already allowing himself to get comfortable around them, and he frowns.  He hasn’t had it this bad in years, a few months before he’d been convicted when he’d met this to-die-for hell on heels woman that left him hanging as soon as she’d used him up.  And here comes Dean Winchester waltzing right into that empty spot with his slow drawl and bowlegged walk and hard face.  Pope appreciates that, gauges his age by the crow’s feet around his eyes when he laughs at his brother, the way he carries the lines of war with ease and grace, how his eyes hold something so much more than aliens behind them.

 

This is most definitely going to be a problem.

 

\--

 

When the Berserkers first scouted out the old theatre, Pope hadn’t really expected it to work, but then Maggie was hanging curtains, Billy found cots somewhere, and they’d suddenly had their own little camp with extra space beyond.  Pope had claimed one of the larger sections in the back as his room, and the only empty, curtained-off space is next to his.  He manages to dredge up a single cot, which the brothers claim is more than enough, and then he leaves them to get comfortable while he gathers his team in the seats.

 

“Loners,” Cueball says, and he’s already glaring.

 

Pope rolls his eyes, and, again, Maggie speaks, “Sam and Dean Winchester, second-in-command for the elite.”

 

He has half a mind to raise his hand to her, but he spares her only a glare before picking up, “We are in fact playing host to two members from the elite.  If anyone objects, either shut up or make a run for it.  In other news, Cueball, Billy, supply run today.  Can you handle it, or should I have Maggie tail you again, just in case?”  Billy gives him an exaggerated middle finger before he leaves, and so Pope sends Maggie out after them.  The other two disperse, one to take his watch on the roof, and Pope allows himself some well-needed down time.

 

When he steps inside his curtained room, the kitten is padding in circles on his pillow, but it stops and stares at him when he enters.  He waits until the kitten decides it remembers him, and then, when it continues its circling, Pope heads over to sit on the edge of the cot and scoop the kitten up.  A moment later, he drops it back on the pillow.  “Alright, boy, now you need a name,” he tells the kitten.

 

He meows pitifully before climbing up onto Pope’s lap and curling up, and Pope looks down at him for a moment before deciding on, “Monkey.  That’s what I called my first cat before my dad blew it up.  I promise I won’t splatter your guts across the trailer wall, though, as he demonstrated.”  Monkey meows up at him, and Pope allows himself a smile as he reaches over a hand to rub the kitten’s head.  The skitters can wait a while; he hasn’t felt this at peace in far too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wasn’t really going to end it here, but I thought this was a good starting point for everything. I’ll get to the 2nd Mass soon, I promise, I just want to do a bit of the back story with Pope, Maggie, and the brothers before I move on and have them meet again. I’m thinking another chapter or two with the Berserkers (which I know, that’s not their name until later, but let it go), and then I’ll skip ahead to the 2nd Mass.
> 
> But anyway, hey—are you curious what Monkey looks like? Here: [Peter](http://sphotos.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-snc7/484375_10151815907065112_632074183_n.jpg). That’s my new little man. He’s almost three months old, and I adopted him on the ninth. I called my second cat monkey, too, and it just seems to have stuck. We’re best friends, though, and he’s currently curled up and sleeping on my chest.
> 
> Rambling, sorry. Don’t forget to leave your thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

_April 2, 2011._

At first, Dean hadn’t thought that Pope and the Berserkers would go for hunting skitters with them, thought they’d want to go their separate ways, and, the first run, that was how they’d tried to play it.  Sam had had some intel that they used one morning, and they were in the midst of being nearly overrun when the Berserkers had shown up, just by pure dumb luck, and it had become blatantly obvious that they all worked better as a team.

 

And so, now here they are, Dean and Pope acting as co-commanders, directing their team in hushed whispers and quick hand gestures.  They end up out in the middle together, one shoulder each pressed against the other’s as they take out their enemy.  The disruption comes in the form of a tiny meow, and Dean swears at the same time that Pope’s head turns.

 

He grabs Pope around the chest after a quick turn, and they’re on the ground just in time to miss a skitter’s leg, but there’s no time to move before one sharp talon is stabbing into the back of Dean’s thigh, and it takes all of his strength not to blackout at the alarmingly sharp flare of pain that bursts through him.  “Fuck,” he hears Pope say over the rushing in his ears, and then the talon is pulling inside of him, and Dean’s mouth fills with blood as he bites his tongue.  A scream bubbles in his throat, and he can’t hold it in when the talon is tugged out.  “Dean.”

 

He makes a noncommittal noise, floating dangerously close to blackness, but then something is tightening around his leg, and he slams his teeth together to stop another shout, muscles locking up as he fights the pain.  “Maggie!” Pope calls out even as Dean hears him shuffle on his feet, swear again, and then there’s a cut-off meow.  When Maggie arrives, they haul Dean up, and he can see Monkey in Pope’s pocket, peeking out curiously.

 

“Bad kitty,” Dean manages to say deliriously before he can’t see or hear anymore.

 

\--

 

Pope resigns himself to the fact that he has no fucking clue how to save Dean’s leg, and he can see Maggie starting to lose it when they finally struggle their way back to the theatre.  He manages to keep it together, taking slow breaths as he and Maggie get Dean onto the stage, laying him down, and, when he looks up, Maggie’s hands are shaking and her eyes are too wide.

 

“Get some water,” he snaps, an order without room for argument, and, for once in her short time with them, she obeys.  Sam appears suddenly, takes one look at Dean, and disappears again—Pope is momentarily mystified and closer to freaking out by his apparent lack of care.

 

“Move,” a voice says a few seconds later when Pope is just sitting there helplessly, hands occasionally twitching over Dean, and he looks up to see Sam the giant kneeling beside his brother.  When the palm of his bear paw comes down _hard_ with a loud smack on Dean’s cheek, even Cueball flinches from his seat in the chairs.

 

Dean wakes with a groan, blinks open his eyes, breathes, and growls, “Fucking asshole,” and Sam just smiles fondly.

 

“Ripped or off?” Sam asks.

 

“There’s a hole in my leg, Sammy.”  And then it’s silent between them, just the two brothers staring at each other until Dean sighs and looks away, and Sam frowns.  “Whatever,” Dean mutters.

 

Sam looks down at his hands suddenly, which he’s folded together, and Pope watches with a confused expression as he _prays_ — _out loud_ , “Castiel, if you can hear us, if you can see us, if you even know we’re alive, we could really use a helping hand right now.  Dean’s hurt bad, and—”

 

“Shut up, Sammy, he’s not coming.  He’s—”

 

“What the hell?” a voice interrupts him, and Pope jumps to his feet, rifle swinging up into his hands as Cueball and Billy do the same behind him.  Sam looks over his shoulder, and Dean _snorts_.  “Oh, come _on_ ,” the newcomer says, shoulders slumping.  He’s tiny and bearded, his hair a crazy mess on top of his head, and his voice is small and amusing as he whines.

 

“You prayed for an angel and ended up with God, good going,” Dean says before he groans, tensing up.

 

“It’s okay,” Sam says belatedly, looking up at Pope, “He’s a friend.”

 

“How the hell did he get in here?” Pope demands, not lowering his rifle.

 

The newcomer starts forward regardless of the gun, and Cueball steps forward.  Pope can practically feel his finger pressuring the trigger, but he doesn’t say anything.  “He’s—I’ll explain later,” Sam goes for, but Cueball just snorts behind him.  “He’s not harnessed, I promise.  Chuck, can you—”

 

“Yeah, of course,” _Chuck_ says, and he almost closes the distance to Dean, but Cueball isn’t having any of that.

 

With a bullet in his shoulder, Chuck doesn’t even flinch.  He does stop, though, before he sighs and closes his eyes.  His shoulder glows white for a moment, and then the skin and clothing stitches back together as though nothing had happened.  And so no one moves as he crouches beside Dean and lays a careful hand over his thigh.  Dean yells, but it’s short-lived because then Chuck is sweeping his hand up and pressing two fingers to his temple.  “He needs to rest,” he says when he straightens again, “Keep him hydrated.  I need to—oh, _come on_.”

 

Sam quirks an eyebrow, and Chuck all but slumps back onto the floor.  “Despite _aliens_ , I’m still fucking _God_ ,” Chuck growls, “It’s honestly really kind of fucking annoying that I can’t zap out of here after healing someone.  This is the _eighth_ time this has happened.  Last time, I had to spend a week with Ellen and Joe before I could peace out of there.  Look, do you guys have floor space for me to crash while I try to get in contact with my boys?”

 

Sam looks away from Chuck, and instantly takes a defensive stance, hand dropping down to his side where he can easily grab his gun.  “Pope, can I have a word outside?”  When Pope nods after a moment, Chuck does the same to Sam, going to sit by Dean before Sam feels comfortable leaving with Pope.

 

For a long few seconds, Pope doesn’t say anything, but instead stands with his back to Sam, watching the skies.  It’s a stance that Sam finds somewhat unnerving, that shows how much Pope has come to trust he and his brother, but he doesn’t comment on it.  He’s just about to say something when Pope takes in an audible breath.

 

“So—I mean—I’ve heard it all, Sam.”  Pope turns, and Sam remains impassive, waiting for him to go on.  “Porter came and he said his piece, pulled me aside and gave it to me straight, said there were monsters of all kinds, vampires and ghosts and shapeshifters, and shit I wouldn’t even believe, but this—” Pope jerks a finger up toward the theatre, “—this is asking a fucking lot of us right now.  _God_?  No thanks.  Where the _fuck_ has God been in all this?  Taking another hit on his bong, that’s where.  That in there is not God—that’s a freak who can— _teleport_ , or whatever.  Angels, the devil— _shit_ , Sam.  When you laid that on me that night, said your piece about God’s chosen son and the devil on the apocalypse playing field, I just let it slide, but this—” Pope pauses, drags a hand through his hair, and sighs, “You have to leave.”

 

Pope can already see the defeat on his face, and he hates that it tugs at him a little to watch Sam nod and turn.  He doesn’t follow him back into the theatre, but it stays quiet in there until he can hear Billy give an obnoxious whoop.

 

“Don’t look so heartbroken,” Maggie says, appearing next to him suddenly, “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing our boyfriend again.”  And Pope doesn’t even ask how she knows what Dean Winchester has done to him.

 

\--

 

Tom looks up as Karen’s motorbike comes to a skidding halt.  “Hal found something,” she says before she’s taking off again, and Tom motions behind him to Dai and Jamil before they’re making their way out in the truck, following Karen’s trail.  When they meet up with her, she’s standing next to her bike and looking toward them.  Hal is about a mile to her left, picking his way through rubble.  It’s more than the usual turned over cars, Tom notices, and he’s about to speak when Dai beats him to the punch, “Why does the ground look like it’s been picked up and shifted to make room for something very large?”

 

Sure enough, a small crater is just a few feet away, and the concrete has been ripped apart and thrown away from the hole.  They each approach the edge cautiously, guns ready, and, just as Tom is peering over, Hal shouts.  He looks up in time to see his eldest son pop his head up and call over, “I found a way in!  I can see from here, too, and that’s definitely a human body down there.”

 

Intrigued, Tom gives the order, “Dai with me, Jamil, stay with Karen.”  Dai follows after him as they head out to where Hal is looking around, and, thankfully, he waits until his father and Dai are with him before he starts to map out their descent.  Ultimately, after a quick argument, Dai offers to stand guard while Tom and Hal go down.

 

It’s easier than Tom had suspected, and they hit the bottom of the crater in only a few minutes.  It’s wider than it looks from the top, stretching far to where a crumpled body is lying.  Hal makes the first step forward, and the body stirs.  Tom instantly grabs onto his son’s arm, holding him still as he lifts his rifle in his other hand.  A quick noise, and Dai is turning, his own weapon trained on the body.

 

It’s a man, Tom realizes.  He rolls off his side and onto his back, emitting a soft groan.  He’s dressed in worn jeans, a faded t-shirt, and a green button-up that is torn and burned in various places.  When Tom tilts his head upward, though, trying to catch a better look at him, he notices a second body, also awakening.

 

And then a voice, “Lucifer?”

 

Tom frowns, and Hal looks over his shoulder at him.  The first man responds after a moment, “I’m alright.  You?”

 

“Where are we?”

 

The first man slowly pushes himself up until he’s sitting, his head turning up toward the dark night sky.  “Earth,” he says after a moment, “And Tom Mason is staring at us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this definitely isn’t a length that I wanted, but I wanted to get something up before I felt like a complete tool. Even though I still do. But okay, so I posted this on my Falling Skies tumblr, as well. I’m working two jobs this summer, and more often than not I’m at the camp 9-2, and then at BJs 4-10, so, pretty much, I just come home, pass out, and start the cycle all over again. I’m exhausted constantly, and I haven’t written anything in weeks. I’m not usually this bad at updating, but I barely have time to function, let alone do what I love. I do want to write this story, though, and I’ve got eight million ideas in my head for it—I just need to find the time. This chapter is this short because I wanted to post what I had and what I’d done tonight, but it’s getting late (I have to wake up at eight), and I want to be rested for camp tomorrow, so I need to sleep. I hope you guys enjoyed, and don’t forget to leave your thoughts!


End file.
